


Best-Laid Plans

by IAmANonnieMouse



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: “Okay, different question,” Eames says. “When we get married, do you want me to take your name?”Arthur glances at him. “Eames, we aren’t even engaged yet.”(or: in which Eames tries to be domestic, but Arthur's too busy being a BAMF to play along)
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 259
Collections: Eames' Stupid Cupid 2020





	Best-Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rudimentaryflair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudimentaryflair/gifts).



> For the lovely [rudimentaryflair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudimentaryflair/pseuds/rudimentaryflair), whose prompt was _domestic_! Happy Valentine's Day!

“How do you feel about children?” Eames asks. “Or is that something we shouldn’t be talking about yet?”

“Eames,” Arthur grunts, “is now _really_ the best time?”

Eames hums. “I mean, it isn’t the _worst_ time.”

Arthur ignores him and fires at the metal bookshelf shielding the nearest projection. He hears the bullets ricochet and curses as he ducks back behind the upturned desk serving as their cover.

Eames fires a few shots of his own, then drops to the floor in a casual sprawl at Arthur’s side. “Okay, different question,” he says. “When we get married, do you want me to take your name?”

Arthur glances at him. “Eames, we aren’t even engaged yet.”

Eames waves a hand in the air. “I know, but you’re working up to it. You know what my answer’s going to be, so we might as well plan for what comes next.” He shoots Arthur a fond look. “You do like planning things, darling.”

Bullets ping against their desk, but neither of them react.

Arthur tries to hide his smile as he stares at Eames. “You bastard,” he mutters. “I bought the damn ring last week. You couldn’t let me have my moment?”

Eames smirks. “I’ll pretend to be very surprised and emotional when you ask me. How’s that?”

“Good enough,” Arthur says with a shrug. “Ready to move this along?” He tilts his head towards the projections that are still firing at them.

Eames grins and holds up a grenade. “Ready when you are, darling,” he says, and he pulls out the pin.

*

“Okay,” Arthur says later, when they’ve wiped everything clean of prints and are waiting to board their plane. “About the names.”

Eames looks at him, a soft smile playing around the edges of his lips.

“I have an important question first,” Arthur says. “Are we going to be using our real, legal names?”

Eames blinks. “Of course we are, darling. You deserve nothing less than a real, legal marriage.”

Arthur tries to pretend that doesn’t make him feel things. “Okay,” he says, voice low. “Then, I want to take your name.”

Eames hesitates. “Darling, I love you, I really do, but are you _sure_? It’s…I mean, there’s a reason I don’t use it.”

Arthur grins. “Yeah, I know. And yeah, I’m sure.”

Eames hooks a finger through Arthur’s belt loop and tugs him closer. “Fine,” he murmurs. “But only if I can take your name.”

Arthur closes his eyes and lets his head rest lightly on Eames’ shoulder. “Okay,” he says, even though he knows they’re being absolutely ridiculous. “It’s a plan.”

*

They treat themselves to a brief vacation a few months later, after they’ve each been saddled with disastrous jobs and Arthur, notably, was attacked by a cartoon Tyrannosaurus Rex.

They meet up at the small lake house Eames bought as their five-year anniversary present, and lounge about for days.

Arthur gets down on one knee at the end of the week, and Eames, as promised, acts theatrically surprised and overemotional. But when Arthur rolls his eyes and says, “Cut the crap, Eames, and tell me yes,” Eames sobers, crouches down in front of Arthur, gently cups his hands, and says, “Yes, darling. Always yes.”

Then it’s Arthur’s turn to be emotional.

Their wedding is a quiet affair—just Arthur, Eames, the woman officiating, and her two daughters to serve as witnesses. Eames lets out his inner sap and poet, and Arthur swears he’s going to get Eames’ wedding vows printed and framed. In return, Arthur dips Eames when they kiss.

Instead of rings, they get tattoos in a matching set—just like their totems. Eames puts his engagement ring on a chain around his neck and pretends he doesn’t like to rest his fingers against it every now and then.

And when everything is said and done, when they’ve enjoyed a ridiculously lavish honeymoon and Arthur’s face is sore from smiling so much, they lock up their little lake house, kiss each other goodbye, and fly out separately, to separate jobs.

And nobody’s the wiser.

*

It only takes one job for Arthur to re-evaluate his _no, we don’t need rings_ stance.

“It’s ridiculous,” he mutters to Eames one night, after watching their extractor shamelessly flirt with Eames all day. “You’re a married man. She needs to lay off.”

Eames chuckles. “She doesn’t know I’m married, love, and we can hardly fault her for her good taste.”

Arthur sits up, glares at him, and says, “I’m buying you a fucking wedding band, and you’re going to wear it.”

Eames grins. “Only if I can buy you one, too, darling.”

That takes the wind out of Arthur’s sails, and he lets himself lay back down, sprawled across Eames’ chest. “Okay,” he says, quieter. “It’s a plan.”

*

They don’t have another job together for four months. Arthur’s the first to arrive at the warehouse, per usual, and Ariadne lets out a terrifyingly high-pitched squeal when she spots the ring on his finger.

Arthur smirks and refuses to answer any of her questions as he gets organized for their debrief.

The chemist is the next to arrive, and then Eames saunters in, pointedly ten minutes late. Arthur glances at his watch, then back at Eames. When Arthur left the house that morning, three hours earlier, Eames was still sound asleep in their bed. As a safeguard, Arthur set alarms in five-minute increments, starting at eight o’clock. Clearly, they didn’t work.

“Love you, too, darling,” Eames says, and he claims the empty seat Arthur left next to his own chair.

“Ohmigod,” Ariadne shrieks, pointing at his hand, “Eames, you too?”

Eames laughs.

“Is there something in the water?” Ariadne asks. “Is this blackmail? Are you guys okay?” She looks down at her own hands. “Shit, am I going to be married by the time this job is over?”

“Don’t worry, love,” Eames says, grinning as he shoots a mischievous look in Arthur’s direction. “Arthur and I aren’t into polyamory.”

There’s a sudden moment of absolute silence before Ariadne explodes into motion. “OHMIGOD!” she screams, and she leaps on Arthur, engulfing him in an enormous hug, then jumps into Eames’ arms too. “You guys!”

The chemist clears her throat. “Do you want me to step out for a minute, or…?”

“It’s fine,” Arthur says over Ariadne’s babbling.

“When was it? You have to tell me everything, guys—and you should know, I am so hurt that I wasn’t able to plan a bachelor party, or the wedding, or give the best man speech, or—”

“We eloped,” Eames says, cutting her off. “There was no bachelor party, because we had no wedding party. Just us, the judge, some witnesses.”

“Who were the witnesses?” Ariadne asks, abruptly serious. “If I find out you guys let Yusuf be a witness, and didn’t invite me, we will have words, you two. _Words._ ”

“Does anyone even use that phrase anymore?” Arthur asks.

Ariadne glares at him. “I mean it, Arthur!” Then she blinks, and she’s all smiles again. “Wait, did you take each other’s names? Are you hyphenated? What do I call you now?”

Eames reaches over and casually hooks his fingers through Arthur’s. “Tell you what, love,” he says with a smirk. “If you can find our marriage certificate, then you can learn what our names are.”

“Guys,” she whines, “that is so unfair!”

“And on that note,” Arthur says firmly, “how abut we actually get to work?” When Ariadne mutters unhappily, he says, “Ari, you can interrogate us over dinner. But Tracey came here to do her job and get paid, like the rest of us, so why don’t we focus on that?”’

“Thank you,” Tracey says. “Oh, and, uh, congratulations, I guess?”

Arthur can’t help his smile. “Thanks.”

He starts the debrief then, before Eames or Ariadne can derail them all further. But he can’t quite help the grin that tries to grow on his face every time he glances at Eames. And he can’t get over the wonderful weight of the ring on his finger.

Later that night, after dinner and Ariadne’s barrage of questions, while they’re laying tangled together in bed, Arthur traces Eames’ tattoo— _their_ tattoo—with his fingers. “Love you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the ink. 

Eames sighs, happy and content and warm, and says, “Love you, too, darling. Always.”

They slowly drift off together, fingers tracing idle patterns on each other. Then, as Arthur’s on the brink of sleep, Eames stirs and says, “So. How do you feel about children?”


End file.
